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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I had a serious case of the misty water-colored memories last week when I got a package in the mail from my mom. She was cleaning out her closets and such and came across a bunch of stuff that technically belonged to me but it had lived in her attic since 1986. With great anticipation, I opened the box and was greeted with a mish-mash of items that gave me a one way ticket to Sentimental Valley. Everything in the box was something that I didn't want to see banished to the trash can yet in New York City, closet space is a premium and I couldn't justify keeping that pile of art work I made in Miss Moon's seventh grade art class. Some of the things were easy to say goodbye to. Other things were not.

I quickly decided that I could do without various plaques and trophies trumpeting my achievements in high school. Yes, I was very excited about that first place win in Duet Acting with my drama partner Dawn, but did I still need to have the trophy? Into the trash it went as did the Outstanding Thespian award and Sophomore Standout plaque. Obviously, I had to keep the handwritten letter that I got from Lisa (Blair Warner) Welchel's grandma who was the president of her fan club and wrote me back when I asked how Lisa could deal with temptation in Hollywood and still be a good Christian. (Yes, I really wrote a fan letter and asked that...) And of course I had to keep the photo albums.

But then I came across something that was really tough. At the bottom of the box were two dolls that had been with me since childhood. I hadn't thought about them for over twenty years and would never have known if my mom had tossed them, but here they were staring at me as if to say, "Golly, we missed you. Where have you been?" One of them was a Raggedy Ann doll that I had made when I was about eight years old. She had a hole near her foot and the stuffing was old and yellow and brittle. Her head was lopsided from a repair made about thirty years ago when she ripped and we had to sew her back together again. The other was a Raggedy Andy doll that I had made with my Grandma when I was about eleven. He wasn't completed and had remained in a state of undress ever since Mammaw Lillian and I had given up on finishing him in 1978. All of a sudden I was sitting on my dining room floor cradling two old dusty dolls and crying like a baby.

I didn't want to display the dolls in my apartment but it seemed pointless to put them in a box and cram them into a closet. But how could I just throw them away? Thinking back to the summer I spent with Mammaw Lillian, I remembered how much fun it was to make that doll. "Honey, can you thread this needle for me? I can't see it," she'd say. My young eyes and nimble fingers deftly threaded the needle and I couldn't understand why she couldn't do it herself. Now every time I reach into my apron to retrieve my reading glasses I understand, but then I didn't. Whenever I would leave her house in Houston to go back to Victoria I would cry because I was always so scared that it could be the last time I would ever see her. I loved her so much. I sat in the dining room crying and thinking about Mammaw and eventually, I put the dolls back in the box to be dealt with later.

After about three days, it was time to decide what to do with the dolls. I was not going to keep them. After all, I didn't even know they were still in existence up until a few days earlier. I realized that Mammaw is not in that Raggedy Andy doll, she is in my memories. I can still have the memories of her without keeping an inanimate object. With or without the doll, I will always remember how I lived with her when I was 22 years old. I stayed with her for about six months as I saved money to get my own apartment. I lived with her when I got my first waiting job at Bennigan's on FM 1960 in Humble, Texas. Bennigan's had some serious expectations when it came to menu preparedness and we had to take two or three tests to get on the floor. Mammaw knew that menu better than I did. Every night for two weeks, we sat on her couch and she quizzed me with flashcards until we both knew every single ingredient of every single dish on the Bennigan's menu. I aced that test and it was all because of Mammaw. When I told her I had passed the test she gave me a hug. "Oh, baby, I knew you could do it!" She was so proud of me. It was on her sewing machine that I made my first apron for work with the scraps of fabric she had in a box in her closet. I knew that I didn't need to hold onto the doll to remember Mammaw Lillian.

I picked up the two old dolls. I gave them a hug and a kiss and put them into a bag. "I love you, Mammaw," I said. I stepped into the hallway of my building and dropped the bag down the trash chute. And you know what? I'm okay. I know that my love for Mammaw is not represented by a toy. The love I have for her is still here with me even though she has been gone for too many years. She was with me at the beginning of my waiting tables career and if she was around today, she would be the biggest fan of the Bitchy Waiter. Do I still have the Raggedy Andy Doll that I made with Mammaw? No. Do I still remember how she laughed and talked and smelled and cooked and listened and smiled and hugged me and loved me? Absolutely.

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Tuesday, November 29, 2011

This has been discussed before, but can we talk about it again please? Servers want tips. We want cash money tips that we can put in our pockets and then carry to the bank to deposit so we can pay our bills. Am I right or am I right? What we do not want is any thing else. You don't need to tell me how fabulous I was to your kids (that never happens) or how friendly I was (again, that never happens) and you don't need to tell me how great my hair is (happens all the time.) What we really really so completely do not ever want is that tip that looks like a ten dollar bill and then when we pick it up we see that is some message from your church saying how our soul is worth more than a 15% tip. Bullshit. I have met Jesus and I know for a fact that He does not approve.

There was a story floating around on the Internet a few weeks ago about this and I am finally jumping on the bandwagon to also announce how wrong it is. Hey, Jesus people: stop it. How would you feel if the next time I was at church I tried something like that with the collection plate? (I will be at church as soon as they install an all-you-can-eat taco bar and a frozen margarita machine). Maybe when the collection plate came my way, I could drop in some Canadian coins and an expired Groupon. Or maybe I could slip it a homemade coupon promising Jesus a 15-minute back massage. Or how about if I drop in a handful of ticket dupes from the bar printer? All of those things have as much financial value as that stupid-ass Jesus money you have been pawning off onto servers for twenty years. It's wrong and unfair. And we all know that they know it's crappy because they always do it when we aren't looking and then they skidaddle their ass out of there before we see it. If they are so sure it's a good idea, then why don't they just tell us to our face how valuable our souls are?

I am pretty certain that when they show up at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter is going to have words with them about their behavior. You see, Saint Peter wasn't always a saint. He used to wait tables with me at Pizzeria Uno at South Street Seaport so he knows how important tips are. When we worked together, we just called him Peter and he was hilarious. He was there when we accidentally served a Muslim family an appetizer with bacon and he was laughing the loudest. I guess he wasn't too worried about because he was friends with Jesus and knew that Christianity was the only religion that mattered so whatever with the bacon-eating Muslims. Anyhoo, if you are one of those people who have left the fake money for a tip, be prepared to 'fess up when you get to Heaven. There is a special place reserved for you up there and it's called the dishroom of the Heavenly Cafeteria. It's open twenty-four hours a day and the dirty dishes are non-stop. It won't be fun but it won't be as bad as Hell. The dishroom in Heaven is air conditioned and you get a fifteen minute break every four hours where you get to eat all the Ambrosia salad you want. You'll love it.

Just to make it clear: servers do not want tips that only look like money. If you leave that Jesus money, your server will curse you and be on the lookout for you to return to their station at which time your food will take longer to get to you and your water glasses will remain unfilled. We hate that kind of tip. We want cash. What would Jesus do? He'd leave 20%, that's what He'd do. Think about it.

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Monday, November 28, 2011

Everyone loves a hamburger. Well, almost everyone; vegetarians could probably do without them or satisfy themselves with a Boca Burger instead. I don't really know what a Boca Burger is. I imagine that there is a farm in the heartland somewhere with free-range Boca's wandering around eating soybeans and fillers waiting until they are invited to the Boca Plant to be turned into a non-meat option. I love hamburgers though; the cow kind. People are very particular about the way they want their burger.

When I was a kid, I always ordered mine the same way whenever we went to a restaurant. I'd look at the waiter and say "I'd like a hamburger with mayonnaise, meat and cheese." That was it. In those days, we didn't have the option of white cheddar or brie or Monterrey jack- it was just plain old American. No one ever asked me how I wanted it cooked and if they tried to put a piece of lettuce on it, they better try again. "Mayonnaise, meat and cheese, please." Growing up, my family used Miracle Whip which is salad dressing and not mayonnaise but I never knew the difference. I was a happy kid who liked things simple. Nowadays, people ask what kind of beef it is and where it comes from and is it anti-biotic free and grass-fed and is the cheese made by virgins listening to harpsichord music on an organic dairy farm. Jeez, I long for the days of simple hamburgers.

Last week someone wanted to order a burger but asked me where the beef was sourced from. Lady, it's sourced from the walk-in. I hit the burger button on the computer, someone goes to get one of those patties from the fridge and they fry that bitch up, I dunno. And then she wanted to put bacon on it but needed to know where the bacon came from too. I went down to the "source" and read it off the package and told her it was from Minnesota or some other state I've never been to. "Oh okay, I guess Minnesota is good as long as it's not Oscar-Mayer or something." Like she knows that if it comes from Minnesota, it must have come from a pig who was happy to give its life in order to lay on her burger.

"What kind of cheese do you have?" she asked.

"American, cheddar, goat and blue."

"Do you have any smoked mozzarella?"

Yeah lady, I have smoked mozzarella, I just didn't wanna say it when I listed the other four cheeses because listing a fifth cheese would have been way too much effort. "No, ma'am. Just American, cheddar, goat or blue."

"Where do your buns come from?"

"A package."

After she learned that our beef was not grass-fed, the bacon was from some mythical place called Minnesota, the buns were pre-made and we didn't have the cheese that she wanted, I figured she'd order something else, but you know what? She didn't. She ordered the burger because when you want a burger you get a burger and you're not gonna let something like corn-fed beef deter you.

When I worked at The Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named, we offered Kobe beef which is from Japan and supposedly the finest beef in all the world. I tried it once and it tasted a bit fatty to me and for the price, I'm just as happy with some cow that grew up in the United States of America. Maybe the Kobe cows are given massages and petted a lot but in the end they still wind up on a plate, right? Wagyu beef from finefoodspecialist.co.uk is another kind of fancy-schmancy beef that comes from Japan as well, but a different town. Sorta like the beef that comes from Texas or Oklahoma. Same ol' same ol' and they both taste good on a bun with pickles. Of course for a completely different kind of beef you can always go to Manhunt but I'm pretty sure that meat needs some anti-biotics.

And how do you like your burger?

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Friday, November 25, 2011

This is in response to the reader who had some well-advised corrections for one of my posts. The person says they don't read my blog very often yet they have commented on it at least twice proving that though they only read it occasionally, they still care about it a great deal. I Am Not A Grammar Nazi had this to say:

I don't do this for the pride or the fame, but because I think that you would be interested to know how sub-par your work is to anything that will actually end up on CBS Sunday Morning. If, however, you clean up you language a bit and make it more presentable, you might just rise above the rank of "blogger" that you so easily scoffed at before.

Dear I Am Not A Grammar Nazi:

I think you meant "your" and not "you" when referring to my language that needs cleaning up. Also, bite me. Here is what CBS Sunday Morning thought about my sub-par writing:

Yeah, I wrote that shit, bitch.

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Thursday, November 24, 2011

Today is the day that so many Americans look forward to. It is also the day that so many turkeys say goodbye to life on the farm and end up on a platter next to some Stove Top stuffing, English Pea Salad and cranberry sauce out of a can. It's Thanksgiving, y'all so unbutton the top of your pants and get ready to give thanks by eating way too much fucking food. This year I am not working which is a Christmas miracle four weeks early. Usually I am serving in the home of someone who is willing to pay me $75 an hour to warm up the dinner they ordered from Whole Foods, but not this year. I said "no thanks " just as quickly as I do when someone offers me a virgin pina colada, a verbal tip or a serving of vegetables.

I did get an offer to work a Thanksgiving dinner this year in the home of none other than Joan Rivers. Joan and I go way back; we shared an elevator in 1995. I thought about taking the gig for a quick second sensing it could be a great blog post with some even better pictures, but then saw that it required a full tuxedo and deleted that shit from my email. I don't do full tuxedo jobs anymore. Besides, what if I showed up and I had to talk to Melissa Rivers? I wouldn't have been able to handle the banality of it all and my face may have exploded and then upon seeing my eyelids plastered on her wall, Joan would then peel them off, stick them in a Ziplock baggie and call her plastic surgeon for an emergency eye lift. Awkward and not my idea of a good Thanksgiving. Instead, I got up to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was in the parade a few years ago, so I have a special place in my heart for it. It was one of the finest moments in my acting career, walking down Broadway in a trash can costume for the New York City Department of Sanitation. That's me in the green can:

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there. Enjoy your day and carry on your traditions. And this will be the third year that I offer my very own Bitchy Waiter tradition of this video of Paula Deen trying to catch a ham with her mouth and failing. I think the reason she was unable to snatch that ham with her teeths is because she had on too much of her butter flavored lip balm and it slipped right out her grasp. Oh, Paula. I still love you. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

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Monday, November 21, 2011

I want to say thank you to everyone who took the time to go over to the CBS Sunday Morning Facebook page and put a vote in for me to get onto the show. If it wasn't for you, this opportunity never would have come my way and I appreciate it. I am super pleased with the way the piece turned out. Also, please share the video. The more viral it goes, the better. True, it was a bit sanitized for the viewing audience but deep down inside you know that I was dropping F-bombs and C-words all over the place. I was happy they let me say the part about keeping Junior out of the aisles, but what I really wanted to say was this: I hate your mother fucking kid and if it gets in my way I will not feel bad if I step on its finger. Since it was network television, I kept it sweet and simple with a tiny hint of snarky smile. The only disappointment I have regarding the segment was that they did not mention the name of my blog. It is on their website which is fine and dandy, but it would have been great if they could have said The Bitchy Waiter just one time. I understand though; family program. It's still pretty amazing that this came to fruition all because of a Facebook campaign. It's just like when Betty White got on to Saturday Night Live except she's an old lady on a comedy show and I'm an old lady on a news show. You say potato I say French fries.

CBS Sunday Morning has not put the video on their Facebook page yet so if you feel up to it, why don't you jump over there (click here for their page) and ask them to post the waiter commentary. I want them to know that people were interested in it so they might ask me to come back someday. I know that Andy Rooney's office is still vacant and I would be happy to move in. I would just Febreeze the hell out of it to get rid of that old man smell, hang my apron on the coat rack and make myself at home. (May Andy Rooney rest in peace...)

Finally, thank you again. So many people read this hastily written blog every day and you all put up with my incessant nagging and need for approval. You are the ones who make me want to keep writing and every time I get a comment, good or bad, at least I know that people are reading. Have a great day and thank you thank you thank you.

Love,BW

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Sunday, November 20, 2011

First off, if you are here because of CBS Sunday Morning, welcome to you. And what took you so long to get here? If you are in the food service industry, then you might enjoy my tales of woe and wonder. You should join my Facebook page,follow me on Twitterand learn how to Bitch Proud because I try to keep it interesting but more importantly, I am a greedy attention whore who craves your approval.

When it's a slow shift in a restaurant it's a double header of crappy. Not only is it boring and time moves like molasses in December, we also leave without any money in our pocket. It's one of the things that makes serving so difficult, this whole "depending on others for our income" thing. If the weather is bad or there's something big on television like the Grammy Awards, then the restaurant ends up looking like a ghost town with tumbleweeds blowing through it. Such was the case last week.

I was at work from 4:00 until close which is 11:00 PM. During the course of those seven glorious hours, a total of 23 people came in to eat. The weather outside was crap and here in New York City, the weather is the driving force of our activities. Unlike other cities, we do not drive to get where we are going. We either walk or take the subway which also involves walking. Since all New Yorkers are made of sugar and if we are touched by rain we will dissolve quicker than a box of strawberry Jello in hot water, if it rains, a restaurant shift can turn out pretty deadly. I spent that night at work struggling to stay awake and trying to keep myself entertained. There were plenty of things I could have done to help pass the time, but most of them involved productivity. If you know me, you'll know that productivity is not something I aspire to when it comes to restaurant work.

What I could have done: organized the sugar caddies and wiped them all down after making sure that all the sugar packets were facing the same way.What I did instead: ignored the sugar caddies and played Words With Friends on my phone.

What I could have done: taken all the candle holders and cleaned them getting the dried wax off of the outside and replacing the candles with new votives.What I did instead: took a candle into the sidestand with me so I had better light to play Words With Friends on my phone.

What I could have done: swept under all the booths getting the last bit of bread crumbs out from the far corners.What I did instead: turned the lights down lower so any crumbs on the floor were now unnoticeable. This also forced me to take an additional candle to the sidestand so I had better light to play Words With Friends on my phone.

What I could have done: practiced my Spanish with the dishwasher, Victor.What I did instead: asked Victor to ask the cook to get me some french fries.

What I could have done: given special attention to the few tables that I had since I had time to give them the utmost service.What I did instead: gave them the same service I always do because I figured it's not like those 23 people were going to be able to tip like 60 people so it was a lost cause anyway so why freakin' bother?

What I could have done: studied the wine list to get myself more familiar with our offerings.What I did instead: Drank some wine in a coffee cup that was next to the candle that was illuminating my Words With Friends games.

What I could have done: taken the time to fill the paper towel dispenser in the restroom.What I did instead: went into the restroom and called some friends and then tried to Skype but my signal in the restroom sucked so I just texted for a while.

What I could have done: spent some time to get to know the bus boy since we never really have a chance to get to know each other and he seems like such a sweet kid.What I did instead: told my manager that it was too slow to have a bus boy and had the sweet kid sent home so id didn't have to tip his ass out.

What I could have done: gone to the walk-in and organized the shelves.What I did instead: laughed at myself for even considering such a ridiculous idea. The walk-in is all the way downstairs for crying out loud.

What I could have done: been thankful that at least I have a job.What I did instead: bitched about how this job was wasting my precious time and I could be home watching Top Chef.

Finally, 11:00 rolled around and I busted out of there at 11:05. Luckily, no one came in at 10:58 to order two well-done steaks. It would not have been pretty had that happened. Like I seriously may have accidentally cut them in their face with a steak knife if that had happened. I survived the most boring night and left with very little money in my pocket. I did, however, leave with a nice buzz from my Chardonnay and three wins under my belt from Words With Friends. I also learned that I need to bring my phone charger to work with me because my battery almost died before the end of the shift and that would have been downright dangerous. Without my phone, I may have been forced to do something like clean the bread area or polish silverware.

So, what do you do when it's boring at your job?

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Saturday, November 19, 2011

At long last, Bitchy Waiter bracelets are here! Tons and tons of people (three) have been asking for these and now they are finally available. They are made of the finest Corinthian silicone (regular plain ass rubber) known to man and you will be proud to wear it at home, school, the office or even church. (Maybe not church.) Each one says BITCH PROUD (and my website) for all the world to see. Now who wouldn't want to wear that? (Grandmas, nuns, babies and people with inherently good taste.) They were made by hand (a machine) in the good ol' U.S. of A. (actually, maybe in China, I'm not really sure.) by people who care (probably a machine that was run by a child in a sweat shop. Again, not really sure.)

You will be the envy of all your friends when you have one of these around your wrist (they might feel sorry for you) and many other people are already wearing them. It's rumored that people like David Hasselhoff, Elizabeth Hasselbeck, Michelle Hasselobama and Madonna are already wearing these stylish bracelets. (This is not confirmed and very very likely completely untrue.)

These will make great (cheap) gifts and you will want to buy several for your friends (and enemies). They are only $3.00 each and a bargain at twice the price. Shipping will happen the second that I get the order (probably more like within seven days) and they will come to you in one of the following: either a reusable pink box similar to the kind at Tiffany's and it will be wrapped in a bright white ribbon with a hand inscribed thank you note OR a plain ass envelope that I got at the dollar bin at the 99 Cent Store. That price includes shipping. You can email me here for more than one bracelet or international shipping questions.

And there you have it. But wait, there's more! Buy now and get a free gold coin worth over one million dollars! That's right, one million dollars! (Gold coins are in extremely limited availability and is based on supply. Not all buyers will receive the gold coin.)

Friday, November 18, 2011

One year ago today, my life was forever changed. November 18, 2010 will be a day I will always look back on as one that shifted the course of my life and pointed me to where I am today, for one year ago was when Lispy Gay took me down to his office at the Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named and fired my ass for hurting his feelings. I mean, fired me because I had "scheduling issues." Why, I remember it like it was yesterday; my shift was winding down and I had just completed the last of my sidework when I was told that I needed to be seen in the office. It had only been 18 days since my orientation but already I was sick of that fucking place. My plan was to work through the holidays and then quit that bitch, but they beat me to the punch. I had blogged a lot about the place but never once did I mention the name of the restaurant, its location or the names of anyone I worked with. Also, I never breathed a word about it to anyone there. Suddenly though, a commenter named "Penelope" started to threaten that she knew who I was and that I was writing about the place that she worked as well. For reasons I never understood, she forwarded the blog to the mangers who in turn fired my ass despite me being "a cool guy who just doesn't fit the vibe." If the vibe of that place was "We all have sticks up our assholes" then they were right. For the first time in my life, I had been fired. Thankfully, I had kept my unemployment claim open and they saved me the trouble of scratching out "I quit" on a bev nap. I skipped outta that place with my head held high and headed right to a bar for a celebratory cocktail. The next morning I slept late and filed for unemployment.

But I often wonder about the people I worked with. Who was "Penelope?" Do any of those people read this blog and not realize they once worked with me? How many of them are still there? Despite the numerous awards and accolades the restaurant has received, do customers have any idea that the mood there is not good and it's one of the worst places I have ever worked? The managers all had such strong personalities (read: bitches) and I imagine what they are up today, one year later. Hmmm, let me see...

Lispy Gay: Continues to work at The Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named. He has repainted the office walls a bright fuchsia that compliments his vocal inflection. In his spare time, he devotes his energy to finding other waiters who are "cool guys but just don't fit the vibe" so that he can crush their hopes and dreams of working at the lamest restaurant in the whole entire fucking city.

Holly Hobbie: Has since left the restaurant industry and opened her own vintage clothing store where everything is made out of old patchwork quilts that Grandmas across the land deemed too ugly to do anything with. Holly makes sweater vests out of them and adds extra pockets so that she always has plenty of storage to carry her lemons which continuously fall out of her ass. She is still a bitch but now she is her own boss and she is trying to deal with the fact that even though she loves herself, her boss is a cunt.Linda Evans: Has appeared on several dating reality shows in the hopes of finding that one true love; or a rich guy, whatever. She briefly dated a Jersey Shore cast member but was dumped when she wore something that Snooki thought was tasteless. She is currently developing a new reality show called Uggs Are Tired. On the show, women are forced into rehabilitation for their addiction to Uggs boots until they realize that they are the ugliest fucking shoes on the face of the planet. Linda herself has over one hundred pair because she feels that they hide her cankles.Porcelain Doll: Is still at the restaurant. She spent three months undergoing facial reconstruction surgery when she accidentally smiled and it cracked her face open, revealing that underneath was a whole new level of bitch face. Lucky for her, she has no feelings in her face so it was not painful. She slapped some more makeup on it thinking it would eventually heal, but her co-workers finally convinced her to see a doctor because her face looked like fucking hell. She still only makes mashed potatoes for famous people like Katy Perry.

One year later, I am so happy to not work there. I get the heebiejeebies when I have to walk by the place and the one time I saw Holly Hobbie in public and I got heart palpitations. In the year that has passed, The Bitchy Waiter plugs along and so do I. Am I glad that I don't work there anymore? Hell, yes. Am I glad that I had the experience? Absolutely, because my book will have a whole chapter dedicated to it and they can't do a thing about it because I never say the name of that horrible shit hole. Fuck you, The Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

I have on my hiking boots and my safety rope because I am climbing high onto a stack of pancakes to yodel out some news: I went to CBS yesterday to record my two and a half minute commentary for CBS Sunday Morning which will air this Sunday, November 20th. Of course since it's a news show, they can't 100% guarantee that my piece will be on because if some major world event happens, I guess the first thing to be cut would be the guy with weird hair who is telling people how to act when they go to a restaurant. So assuming Occupy Wall Street stays calm and no major wars break out, you can expect to see me on television this weekend.

It was very exciting to show up at CBS studios and have a reason to be there. The receptionist asked if I had ever visited before and I declined mentioning the time I was there for my semi-final interview for the first season of Survivor. (Yes, I could have been Richard Hatch!) I was escorted to hair and make-up where the hair lady told me, "Your hair is fabulous; I'm not touching it." The make-up lady on the other hand got out her trowel and started piling on the foundation. Since I look like a broke down Gene Wilder and I had three margaritas the night before, she had her work cut out for her, poor thing. When she was finally done, I think she needed a nap or at least a hug.

The producer made a few last minute changes to my commentary and put me in front of a camera and told me to "go." Was this really happening? Did CBS let me write 504 words about what I want the world to know about waiters and now I get to say it to the over 4,000,000 viewers of the show? Amazing. It went great. I did about eight or nine takes and only flubbed one word one time. My goal was to impress them so they'd think, "Hmmm, you know Andy Rooney's office is vacant..." And I also want them to know that I don't have to write about food service just because my veins happen to run with maple syrup and when I cry, my tears are made of balsamic vinaigrette. Once it airs, don't be surprised when I ask you to go to their website and beg them to bring me back. I know none of you would be surprised, because you know how desperate I am for the attention and if I didn't do that, you'd be disappointed in me.

So set your DVR's and Tivo's for Sunday, November 20 at 9:00 AM EST. And thank you to everyone who initially went to the CBS Sunday Morning Facebook Page and mentioned me because if it wasn't for you, I never would have had the opportunity. Now all we have to do is hope that nothing in the program changes and they don't leave my ass on the cutting room floor. If that should happen, I will be very depressed and drink tequila until I can feel no emotions. So basically like any other Sunday morning, yeah.

Would you do me a favor and "like" this? It just takes a click and every little click helps me take the next step to where I want to go: manager of my own Houlihan's!!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

I can't believe I have never complained about this, but what the hell is up with the people who use half of a sugar packet and then fold it up and put it back in the sugar caddy? Hey, Grandma, nobody wants to use your leftover packet of freaking sugar. I know, I know, you don't want to waste it, but how about you just wrap that packet up in a tissue that I know you have in your purse anyway and take it home with you for the next time you have some malt-o-meal that's not quite sweet enough?

As a customer, you don't want to use a leftover sugar packet, right? Think about it: your iced tea is sitting there waiting to be sweetened and you reach over to the (sticky, dirty, never-ever cleaned) sugar caddy to choose your sweetener of choice, be it sugar, Sugar in the Raw, Splenda, Sweet'n Low, Equal or whatever else the hell we can cram into that plastic hotbed of filth and germs. When you pick up a packet that is half empty (or half full for all you cockeyed optimists) you don't use it, right? No, of course you don't. You want a new one.

As a server, it's even worse. At the end of the shift when it comes time to fill the sugar caddies, it bites us in the ass. When I fill a sugar caddie, I first turn it upside down in order to get as many packets in it as possible. This is when I am alerted to to the already opened packet that Frugal Francine stuck back into the caddie, because when I flip it over, sugar comes pouring out onto the floor forcing me to go get a broom and sweep that shit up even though sweeping is not my job. (Okay, it is my job, but I don't do it. Why bother? People are just gonna make the floor dirty again.)

I have two words for the people who do that: stop it. Wait, I actually have three words: fucking stop it. If you think it's saving us money, you're wrong because all we do is toss that sad ass packet of sugar into the trash. If you don't want to see it go to waste, then put all of it into your tea or coffee or even pour into your pie hole, I don't care. If it's too much to use, then take it home or give it to that homeless guy on the F train who always says he'll take pennies, nickels or even leftover food. (By the way, he doesn't really want food. I once offered to take him into a deli and buy him a sandwich but he told me he's just take the money instead. I'm sure he'd love half a Splenda though...) Just don't put it back in the caddie, alright? And it's really nice of you to fold it all neatly as if that's going to make someone want to use it, but don't bother. Once I saw one that had a paper clip on it. Really? Did someone make a special trip to Staples just so they had an extra supply of paper clips for a sugar packet emergency? C'mon, people.

I can't be the only server who has experienced the frustration of inadvertently dumping sugar all over the place because some dumb fuck thought they were doing me a favor by saving half a Sweet'n Low. I don't give a shit about the sugars. I use them to stick under a table leg when a customer tells me their table is wobbly, so do you honestly think I care about saving the quarter of teaspoon of Equal? Enough already. Use it or throw it away, just don't put it back. I'm talking to you, old lady.

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Monday, November 14, 2011

This is the true story of a little boy named Edgar. Edgar was a bus boy at a little tiny restaurant in Queens. He was always flat broke because he was known to go out on the weekend and get so plastered that he would either spend all of his money or lose it; he was never quite sure which. One day at the restaurant, the Big Bad Chef overheard Edgar saying how badly he was in need of money. The chef, always one to take advantage of someone else's misfortune if he thought it could benefit him in any way, said to Edgar, "I know a way you can make an easy hundred bucks." Edgar's eyes lit up; his two favorite words were "easy" and "money" so the chef had certainly gotten his attention.

"Okay, what do I have to do?" asked sad, desperate and poor Edgar.

"You ever hear of the Cinnamon Challenge?"

Of course Edgar had never heard of it but if it involved an easy hundred bucks, he definitely wanted to learn more. The Cinnamon Challenge is when someone tries to swallow a tablespoon of cinnamon without the aid of water and it must be done within sixty seconds and without spitting any of it out. Cinnamon is delicious on things like French Toast or rolls or oatmeal, but alone on a tablespoon it does not have the same appeal. However, Edgar eagerly accepted the challenge.

The crew headed down to the basement where the giant container of cinnamon sat on a shelf waiting to be used in a proper fashion. Big Bad Chef grabbed the plastic canister and dipped a tablespoon into it. "So you gotta put the whole spoonful in your mouth and swallow it. No water and no spitting. If you get it all down in under a minute, the money is yours." He slapped five twenty dollar bills onto the stainless steel table and handed the spoon to Edgar. Edgar thought this was going to be a breeze. It's just a tablespoon, right? "Ready?" said Chef. "Three, two, one, GO!"

Edgar dumped the spoon of cinnamon into his mouth and began to swallow it. Within seconds, his eyes started to water and his throat started to constrict, but he persevered. Trying not to cough, he closed his eyes tight and focused on how many Coronas he could buy with a hundred dollars. Thirty seconds into the challenge, he held back a cough. The Chef was starting to get worried. At forty-five seconds, the spice got the best of him and he coughed sending out a cloud of brown powder all over his shirt and the floor. It was not pretty but the basement now smelled like a big holiday candle. The Chef reached over to the money. "You lose, loser," he said. Edgar grabbed a glass of water and chugged it down trying unsuccessfully to get the cinnamon out of his mouth. Gagging and spitting, his throat hurt and his eyes burned but nothing was more painful than seeing everyone laugh at his failure.

"I knew you couldn't fucking do it!" The Chef put the twenty dollars bills back in his pocket and went up stairs laughing all the way.

Edgar brushed off his shirt and finished the water. He was okay now but didn't know if he would ever be able to eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast again. Back upstairs, the Chef gave a play by play recount of the event for anyone who hadn't seen it firsthand. Eventually, Edgar made his way back upstairs. He smelled nice but he was still broke.

It's not an easy challenge to win. Edgar gave it a good shot though. "Maybe next time," he thought. Poor Edgar. I think he might be a little naive. Later that night the Chef gave him a peace offering. He handed him a spoon of "whipped cream" which was actually meringue that had not been sweetened, so basically a spoon of egg whites. Edgar also told me that a few days earlier Chef had asked him to taste the sauce for the special of the day. Edgar swallowed the whole serving which he quickly learned was a ramekin of chicken fat.

A word of advice to Edgar: if anyone offers you a Soggy Biscuit, don't take it. And if you want to see a video of some other Cinnamon Challenge failures, you can click here.

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Saturday, November 12, 2011

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life and that Son shall also sit at booth #16 and be served by The Bitchy Waiter. - John 3:16

I am about 99.9% sure that Jesus came into my restaurant last night. I had always heard that Jesus was everywhere, but I never expected him to show up in my station. We first saw Him looking into the window of the restaurant. Initially, we all thought He was checking out the menu but then we realized that He must be seeing if there were any sinners inside that needed saving. I suppose that's why He sat in my station. Jesus was fatter than I thought He would be, but He carried the weight well. I was a little nervous when I approached His table because I haven't been to church since 1988. The last time I went was one Sunday morning in college when I woke up feeling like going back to church after a three year absence. I went to the nearest Baptist church and the sermon that day happened to be about how being gay was a sin. "Oh, that's why I quit coming here," I thought and headed my ass right back out. But Jesus seemed cool last night and He didn't even mention anything about how long it's been since he's heard from me.

He was with a lady friend. I assumed it was Mary Magdalene, but she may have just been some casual encounter and I didn't ask. I gave them the specials and when He started to talk I began having my doubts that this guy was really Jesus because His voice was high pitched and kind of un-Jesus-y. "Maybe it's just some hipster dude who needs to shave and get a haircut," I pondered, but when he asked for a glass of red wine, I knew it was Him. I considered just bringing him a glass of water and letting him do his Jesus-magic but I figured it was His night out and maybe He didn't feel like doing any tricks. Mary ordered white wine which I thought was a real slap in the face to Jesus. I served the drinks and they told me they wanted a little time to decide before placing their order and they asked me for some bread.

"How many loaves would you like, " I asked Him.

"Umm, just one," he said. "If we want more, we'll let you know."

"Just one? Not forty?" I winked at Him to let him know that I knew if He wanted more bread He didn't have to ask me for it. "Would you like any fishes with that?"

Jesus looked at me like he heard that joke all the time so I chilled out and let Him have some space. I wanted to see if I could get Him to walk on water so the next time I was near His table, I spilled a glass of it on the floor next to Him. I pretended that I cleaned it all up, but really I left some there just in case He got up to go take a pee, I could see if He floated over it. After what seemed like forty days and forty nights, He finally called me over to order. He asked for a shell steak, medium rare and I was totally surprised. For some reason I just thought that Jesus would be vegan or vegetarian or at leastpescatarian, but he wanted steak. Mary ordered chicken breast which didn't surprise me at all because we all know how Mary Magdalene is and of course she wanted something with the word "breast" in it. Whore.

When their food was ready, I gave Jesus extra ketchup for his fries because I wanted to see if he would pour it all over his plate and then part it like the Red Sea, but he didn't even eat it at all. Man, Jesus, way to disappoint.

By this time, the restaurant was closed and I was ready for the two of them to be on their way, but they kept on yapping about who knows what. When He finally did get up to go the bathroom, I wasn't paying attention so I don't know if He floated over the water or not. I placed their check on the table and when He handed me His credit card His hand accidentally touched mine. I felt the warmth and power of His spirit flow into my body and right up my arm, through my chest, into my neck and directly to my face and lips where it culminated in a tingly sensation. The two of them left the restaurant and blessed everyone as they walked through.

I went to clear their table and see what kind of tip Jesus and Mary left me. They gave me a 15% tip which was fine but I expected a little more considering how many dollars I had dropped into the collection plate during my church years from the early to mid 80's. I picked up the credit card slip to see what Jesus' autograph looked like and it was then that I noticed the name on the card. The name was not Jesus. It was something like Robert or Michael. Hmmm, could this guy have been a Jesus impersonator? Maybe he really was just some dude with long scraggly hair, a beard and sandals. After all, I never saw this guy do any miracles and he never told me he was Jesus, I just assumed. I put the credit card voucher into my apron and carried on with my closing sidework. When I got home I looked into the mirror and I noticed something about my face. That morning, there was the very beginning of a cold sore making its debut on my lower lip, but now it was gone. Could it be that the touch from the Maybe-Jesus-Guy had cured my cold sore in much the same way he had cured those lepers? I think it's possible.

So yes, I will stand behind my claim (99.9%) that Jesus sat at booth 16 last night. The other .1% is reserved for the possibility that it was a guy from Williamsburg, Brooklyn named Robert or Michael who needed to get a damn haircut and the cold sore was cured by the Abreva in my pocket.

God Bless.

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Thursday, November 10, 2011

Goodness gracious, it has been so long since I have had time to write. Halloween took so much out of me and all of a sudden Turkey Day is almost here! The kids were adorable in their costumes; Billy was a hobo and Suzy was a gypsy. I even put on some cat ears and said meow a few times. I was soooo into it! Hubby had to work late that night because he was training a new secretary but I took lots of pictures so it was almost like he was there, LOL. :)

Anyway, let me get to the point. I recently saw a horrible blog written by what appears to be a very unhappy middle-aged man who has spent his years waiting tables. I can't even say the name of his blog, because it has a bad word in it. Poor thing. He must be miserable. He wrote a post about a woman who came into his restaurant and breastfed. Boy oh boy, did he stir up the pot with that one. I don't usually like to face conflict, but I want to put in my two cents. Okay, maybe three cents, LOL!

Breastfeeding is my right as a mother, a woman and an American. It's even protected by the law in most states and if it's the law then we know it must be right, right? Right! This is the United States of America after all. I breastfed both of my darlings and if I still could, I would. It is a special bond and I miss it. The last time I breastfed Billy we were at Chuck E. Cheese's for his birthday. I knew that he was soon going to be too old to have that moment with me and when I saw him blowing out his five candles, I couldn't resist. I pulled out my feeding apron and put him in my lap. Of course he didn't want to, what with all his friends there watching, but I just told him how much better his birthday cake would taste if he had it with some milk first. After I promised him a dollar to go play Skee-Ball, he agreed and took one last sip. I asked Suzy if she wanted some but she was texting on her phone and said, "No thanks, Mom. I'm busy." They grow up so fast!!!

If that B****y Waiter was so offended by it, he should have just looked away. That's what all the people at Chuck E. Cheese did. Honestly, it was if they'd never seen a woman feed her five-year old child before. Even some of the mothers seemed put off by it which I found really surprising, but if they can't handle it, that's their issue and not mine. Breasts are made for one thing: FEEDING CHILDREN. (Hubby, if you're reading this, I know you beg to differ, you naughty boy, but it's true. It really is true, dear, no matter what you try to show me on your videos.) I am not ashamed when I feed. When I go to the beach or the swimming pool, I wear my one-piece with the cute little skirt and the polka-dot cover up, but when it comes time to feed my children, if some skin shows, then so be it. I am woman, hear me roar. Or in the case of last Halloween, hear me "meow." LOL!

I'd better be going. I just needed to write and let B****y Waiter know that breastfeeding is a wonderful and natural thing that women do. It's a privilege and an honor. I hope he can come to turns with it and maybe someday he won't find a bosom so disturbing. Once he falls in love with the right girl and becomes a father, he will understand how truly wonderful it is to feed a child by the nipple of his wife. I pray for him. I hope he can find happiness someday.

Farewell, all. I am off to the grocery store to get things for dinner. Hubby said he will be home for dinner tonight so I am making his favorite: meatloaf and green peas with fresh rolls. Of course, there is always the chance that he will have to work late again or even spend the night at the office. The poor dear works tirelessly when it comes to training his secretary but he loves it so who am I to judge? I love you Hubby!!! Good luck with your secretary. I'm sure she will get everything right eventually. You just keep trying even if it takes all week, you sweet dedicated man, you.

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Wednesday, November 9, 2011

There is a new trend sweeping the country that is going to affect servers everywhere. It is truly horrible. In a never-ending attempt to stay cool, hip, forward and chic, restaurants have started to do something that will make people feel like they are eating at some fancy ass restaurant or spa instead of their local Applebee's or Chili's. We have all dealt with the limes in the Coronas and the lemons in the Diet Cokes and now it seems it is becoming popular to put cucumbers into glasses of water. Dear Lord in Margaritaville and all things holy, please say this isn't happening.

I have had cucumber water and you know what? It tastes like fucking cucumber water. It was given to me once when I went to get a massage. You know the routine. The spa attendant hands you your robe and points you in the direction of where to go slip it on along with some paper flip-flops and she says, "Would you like anything to drink, sir?" I answered water and the next thing I knew there was a big glass of chilled water in my hand and it had a goddamn fucking cucumber floating in it. First off, a spa should have been offering me some wine, but that's a different matter. I drank the cucumber water, but for me it had entirely too much of a vegetable-serving taste for me to thoroughly enjoy it.

Why don't I want this disturbing trend to continue? Allow me to explain. Servers already have enough to do before the restaurant opens and I do not want "slicing cucumbers" to be one more thing on the ever-growing list of opening sidework. Isn't enough that people want lemon in their water and cherries in their Cokes and olives in their martinis? Let's leave the cucumber out of it. Besides, I am vehemently opposed to all things vegetable and I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would want to put one in their H20. It was probably some fancy snooty bitch who first tried it.

Lady: Excuse me, waiter, but do you have any cucumber sandwiches? I missed my afternoon tea time and I am simply dying for one.

Waiter: No, ma'am. We don't have any cucumber sandwiches.

Lady: And please cut off the crusts first. I cannot stand crusts on my cucumber sandwiches.

Waiter: Yeah, we don't have any cucumber sandwiches.

Lady: And place it on a lace doily, please. Don't you agree that everything tastes better when it is served on a lace doily?

Waiter: Um, yeah. I'd put your cucumber sandwich on a doily if we had cucumbers sandwiches and doilies, but we don't. Would you like to try our our Buffalo Wing Quesadilla Pizza Potato Pie instead?

Lady: Just the cucumber sandwich on the doily, thanks.

The waiter heads to the kitchen and is all, "This crazy lady thinks I'm gonna make her a fucking cucumber sandwich. Hey, Salad Guy, hand me a cucumber slice, will ya? I'll show her what I think about her fucking cucumber sandwich." He takes it to the bar and pours a glass of water and then drops the cucumber into it. He goes to the snooty lady. He puts on his biggest shit-eating grin and places the glass onto the table.

Waiter: My most sincere apologies but at this time our chef is unable to prepare your cucumber sandwich and I just used my last doily when I served an English Tea biscuit to the Queen of England sitting at booth #4. However, I took the liberty of placing a fresh slice of cucumber into a glass of our finest purified water. I hope you enjoy it.

Lady: (takes a sip) This is delicious! This is my favorite beverage of all time; it's so light and refreshing! I'm going to have this from now on at every restaurant I ever eat in and I am also going to encourage every lady I know to do the same thing. Thank you, waiter. Will you please get cucumber slices for everyone else in my party right away??

The waiter mentally stabs himself in his heart because he knows he has just created a cucumber monster who will carry on this ridiculous notion to other waiters across the land.

If someone asks you for cucumber water, JUST SAY NO.

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Saturday, November 5, 2011

I was so very impressed when I went to your table and saw a big fancy one-hundred dollar bill laying next to your check. My first thoughts were, "Wow, he must be really rich and powerful in order to have hundred dollar bills in his wallet. I am envious of someone like him, gee willikers." It must have been really cool to see you reach into your wallet and toss that money onto the table and then waltz out of the restaurant. Everyone sitting with and around you must have been pretty impressed. I mean, a hundred dollar bill?? Wow! But here's the deal. Your check totaled $117.32. You know what that means, right? Yeah, you walked out on your check, you big pile of stinky dog shit. So not only did you not leave me a tip, you think I will just cover that extra $17.32, is that it? You sir, are a gentleman and an asshole.

Just so you know, when it comes time for me to pay taxes, the government is going to assume that I got tipped 8% of your check, or in other words, $9.39. So I will be taxed and social securitied and FICA'd about $2.35. But here's the deal: you didn't tip me. I can't call up Uncle Sam and say, "Oh yeah, the asshole at table 201 didn't actually tip me so just disregard that bill, thanks." Nope. I will pay that $2.35 regardless. So not only did I not make any money from your table, I lost money by serving you.In some restaurants, I would be expected to tip the busser or food runner based on my sales. So if I had to tip them 2% of whatever I sold, I would be expected to give them $2.34 even though you didn't tip me jack shit. Are you starting to see how crappy it was of you to walk out on your check like you did?

In some places, the managers will make waiters pay for that loss out of their own pocket which really really sucks. That's when waiters have to get creative and start moving things around from one check to another just to cover that loss. Ethical, no. Necessary, yes. Lucky for me I was working at a place where my managers know that people like you exist and my manager voided off some items from your check so it would be under $100.00. That isn't always the case though.

Yes, I tried to find you. I ran out onto the street to see if I could spot your weasel ass slinking away but you had already crawled back into your hole and vanished. I just wanted to let you know that you really suck. You can't pull that shit in Macy's or at Target, but in a restaurant, I guess you can. I know now why you didn't want to leave a phone number or contact email with the host when you first checked in. We tell you that we like to get your info in case we find an iPhone or a scarf at your table, but really it's so that I can call your cheap, no-good, thieving ass and tell you that you need to drag your sorry skank self back up to the restaurant and finish paying your check. Good move for you, not leaving a phone number.

So thanks for sitting in my station. It was real pleasure to be reminded that scum like you are out there in the world. I hope you get a severe case of cold sore and pink eye coupled with some major chapped lips and a skin rash. I want your face to be as unattractive as your behavior. Fuck you.

Love,The Bitchy Waiter

I hope you will share this so people will know what happens when they don't pay their check.

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Thursday, November 3, 2011

Renovations are happening at my job so things have been a bit dusty at work lately. We aren't closing down as these changes happen so each day we show up for work, we never know what to expect. Plaster on the silverware? Whatever. Paint spilled on the carpet? Walk around it. The handrails to the stairs still tacky with the new stain? Stop right there, because that was a huge problem for an old man who bit my head off with the same ease he probably yells at kids to get off of his lawn.

There were signs all over the fucking place that said things like "Please pardon our appearance as we renovate" and "Please avoid using the handrail since it was newly painted today." The signs were clearly visible for anyone who didn't have an Occupy Cataract situation going on with their pupils. That may have been the problem with the old man. Seeing that he smelled like a bucket of moth balls with a shot of Fiber One and gentle mist of Metamucil, it would not be shocking to learn that his eyesight was a bit cloudy. I was at the foot of the stairs waiting for him to make his way down when he yelled out at me, "Goddamn, what the hell is going on with these rails?" I looked at his hands and saw they were covered in a beautiful mahogany stain that will really make the new purple color on the walls pop.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir. Some of the woodwork was stained today and it's still a bit sticky. I do apologize."

"Well, you ought to put up a goddamn sign," he croaked out at me.

"We did, sir." I pointed at a sign that was next to me.

"Well, you need to put one at the top of the stairs, not down here where it's too late." My eyes went to the sign at the top of the stairs and then I focused on the other sign at the top of the stairs. There were three signs in total.

"I'm sorry. I think there is at least one sign up there, sir-"

"Well, I didn't see it," he interrupted. He thrust his dirty hands out to emphasize his point.

"Well, I did," I said and help up my nice clean hands to emphasize my point. "The men's room is down the hall on your right hand side, sir." He grumbled something that I couldn't understand but it didn't matter because I had no intention of responding to it anyway. Seconds later, I heard the man caterwauling.

"Arrgh, I can't get this door open! Wheeze, why won't this door open??"

"That's a closet, sir. The restroom is down the hall and on your other right hand side."

He fumbled his way down the hall where I assume he washed his hands and bled his lizard. We had no other contact for the rest of the night for two reasons. Number one, he wasn't in my station. Number two, there's only room enough for one grumpy old man in that place and that grumpy old man is me.

So if you happen to show up at my job, please be aware that it might be dusty, the woodwork might be sticky and the paint on the wall may not be dried, but it's all so that we can make it nicer for our guests. However, if you get some wet paint on your coat, I won't tell you about it. It's too much effort for me. One time while waiting for the F train, I saw a sign that said "wet paint" on all the columns. There was a man who obviously did not read the sign because he had leaned against a pole and now had a green strip of paint down the side of his jacket. It was also on the side of his face. I watched him as he realized it was all over his coat but he had no idea it was all over his face as well. I debated whether or not to tell him. I mean, I knew there was nothing he could do about it, right? And if I told him, he would just spend his whole commute to work thinking about the fact that his face had green paint all over it and he would feel awkward and embarrassed, right? So I didn't tell him. The F train pulled into the station and I let him get on it thinking the only think he had to be self-conscious about was his coat having paint on it. Never mind it looked like he was doing his best Wicked Witch of the West impersonation. He sat down and I watched people look at him and think "Does he know he has paint all over his face?" I often wonder what he felt like when he showed up to work complaining about the paint on his jacket when someone was like, "Yeah, douche bag, it's all over your fucking face too."

Moral of this story? Read signs.

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Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Of all the posts I have written over the last three years, not one of them has gotten more comments than the post called An Order of Milk With a Side of Boob. At last count, there were 133 comments mostly from breastfeeding mothers who were not pleased with what I wrote. Actually, most of them were not pleased with what other's commented on and they quickly forgot what I had said about it in the first place. The post got picked up by some motherhood website and it went like wildfire. Here are a few of my favorites:

Why are you implying (however subconsciously) that breasts are only sexual?

I'm all for breastfeeding. But, like with everything else, there's an appropriate time and place for exposing a breasticle. "Shirt and Shoes Required" kinda implies "don't whip out your tit", does it not?

Seriously, these women can bring a bottle for the kid if they're out in public. I don't want to be exposed to someone's bodily fluids. Breast milk doesn't always make it into the baby's mouth. Have some class, ladies!

Breasts PRIMARY FUNCTION are to provide nutrition to children. Don't twist biological fact to suit your prudish ideas. Just because you're a pearl-clutcher doesn't mean that a baby can't be fed while in public.

Excuse me, does there have to be something sexual about breasts for women to just whip them out in front of unsuspecting people? Can I have my boyfriend suck my tits in a restaurant as long as we weren't fucking at the table? Oh, and as for what people said about it being natural, yeah, so is taking a dump. I don't do that at the table either.

So you had a baby and because of that I should go out and spend several thousand dollars on remodeling the so that you can feed your baby in my restaurant? What is wrong with you people? Yes, the baby has a right to eat and yes the mother has a right to breastfeed, but I also have the right not to witness you whipping out the mammary glands to feed Jr.

There is nothing wrong with that lady feeding her baby. And more power to her if she is a confident enough woman to do it without a cover.

Finally, did any other patrons go to the washroom to eat? Would YOU have gone to the washroom to eat? I highly doubt it. If breast feeding offends you, put a blanket over YOUR head.

Okay, okay, enough already! Let me be clear about what I wrote. Never once did I say what she was doing was wrong. I simply expressed my surprise at walking up to her table to see that she was in the middle of something that I would consider a very private moment. I did not place her at the front of the restaurant on my own. The milk-lady was told she could sit where ever she wanted to sit and she chose the table nearest the door. Her call, not mine. I was very respectful of the mother and gave her the privacy she needed while she fed her kid from her teet. I was not rude to her and I understood that this is what needed to happen. Am I allowed to feel uncomfortable? Yes, I am. It's my feeling and if I want to have it, I can. Breasts in general are foreign to me so whether they are in a bikini, a tube top, Spanx or if it has a baby hanging off of it, my first thought is going to be, "Eew, gross. Titty."

I appreciate the comments. Most of them were very thoughtful and lengthy and I almost feel bad that some people spent more time commenting about the post than I spent writing it. I wrote it in about twenty minutes before I went to work one morning. It came about like this: "Hmmm, what can I write about today? Oh, how about that lady who breastfed last night. Yeah, that'll do, whatever." The next thing I knew, it was firestorm of controversy.

So in the future, if you are in my section and feel like breastfeeding, please feel free. I will politely avert my eyes and wait until you are done before I take your order. I will keep my discomfort to myself. I do not put a blanket on my head when I eat so I don't think your baby should either. And since I don't eat in a bathroom neither should your baby. And for the record, I never said that's what should happen. Can we please put this behind us? As a token of peace, friendship and my support of breastfeeding wherever the hell you feel like it, I offer this photo:

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